


Dusk Between the Blinks

by illustriousphan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Abusive Relationship(s), Alternate Universe - College/University, Amazingphil - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Oneshot, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Phanfiction, danisnotonfire - Freeform, kinda poetry, phan oneshot, phanfics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:06:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illustriousphan/pseuds/illustriousphan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan was in an abusive relationship. Upon finding Phil, who's currently in one like Dan used to be, he wants to help... but maybe he needs some for himself before he can offer it to others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusk Between the Blinks

**Author's Note:**

> this was written with troye sivan's song "bite" in mind. they are closely linked and i would recommend [listening while reading](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sMp4lNX5DQU), but you do you. i don't own you. anyway please enjoy! (also if u comment i will treasure it lots)

The boy with brown hair is late to class, and yet -- he stops for coffee. Because, Dan thinks to himself, this is what he does: he wakes up late, stops for coffee, and goes to class.

“A tall flat white, please.”

And he sounds pretentious, because he’s an English student. 

It’s what he does.

“Dan?” calls out a woman whose face he’ll soon forget. She hands him a warm white cup. 

“Thank you,” he replies, and turns around. He checks his phone for the time, all the while walking quickly and blindly. He runs into something. 

His phone drops to the floor; he looks up.

A guy his age flinches away from him, and though the cafe is loud in the late-morning rush, the person is silent with his eyes squinted shut. It’s a miracle nobody’s coffee spilled.

“Sorry, mate,” Dan would say, but he doesn’t. “Hey,” he breathes instead. “It’s not your fault.” This is what he wishes would’ve been said to him on his worse days.

The man before him has opened his eyes, and Dan can hardly tell that they would be blue if not for pupils the size of moons. And Dan moves, because he recognizes this. He hugs the other man tightly for all of half of a second, because he’s late, and this is something he’d hoped he’d never have to do. He pulls his hands back to find a pen and the nearest napkin, and before the shaken stranger can do much else, Dan’s written his phone number and his name on the paper. He hands it out, flighty and apologetic and light, but takes it back, thinking of something else.  _ Stay safe, _ he writes, swishing his pen as fast as it’ll go against the rough surface. He clicks his pen, hands the man the napkin, and picks up his phone.

Dan jogs to the door, because he’s late, and it’s his thing. Being late, rushing around -- he’s used to it.

 

*

 

Had he not been awake trying to fix his damn leaky sink (because cheaply and badly is better than awful and constant), Dan would’ve missed the call. 

“Hullo?” he greets. Is it who he thinks it is? The phone sandwiches between his ear and shoulder as he stands, stretches.

“Hey, is this Dan?”

Dan almost swears. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m Phil -- we ran into each other in Starbucks the other day --”  _ Phil _ . It’s a weighty name, but easy to say and remember all the same.

“Yeah, I remember. How are you?”

Phil doesn’t answer for a moment. “I’m okay, I guess,” but his voice doesn’t float quite right, and Dan knows he’s not.

“Do you want to… um, should I….” Dan doesn’t know if he should offer. “This is gonna sound creepy, but I know what you’re going through --” scenes of fists and blood flit around him. For a moment he can’t hear the dripping sink, and he can imagine exactly how Phil felt when they ran into each other. He knows he shouldn’t feel guilty for that, but he does, and he has to wait until he’s not spinning anymore to keep going. “Um, do you want me to pick you up?”

“Could you? Lucas -- that’s, um. Yeah. He’s out having a smoke.”

“Where are you? I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Dan’s already grabbed his car keys when Phil lists an address. He keeps repeating it to himself on the way down the stairs.  _ Fifty-eight North Promenade, fifty-eight North Promenade _ .

Dan’s not sure how he found his way here. His car’s sounded like a chainsmoker since 2003, for one. Also, he hadn’t previously known where North Promenade was. Yet here he is, looking like a stalker for all he’s worth.

_ Here _ , he texts Phil. Lucas is nowhere in sight. Dan hopes he’s in some backyard, but considering the flat looks just like every other, it’s not likely it exists. 

He hits his head on his steering wheel; there’s not much else to do. With his hands in his lap, he realises that the text might’ve made it worse. If that guy had a hold of Phil’s phone... 

“Shit, Dan,” he says aloud.  _ “Shit.” _ He, out of all people, should’ve known not to do that. How many times had he been yelled at or even hurt for getting notifications on his phone? If Lucas is anything like Eric had been, Phil’s in for hell. And it’s Dan’s fault.

A knocking sound startles him; he’s shaking, he notices. Looking up, a dark face peers through the passenger window, and what does Dan do? He rolls the window down. He doesn’t unlock the car. Phil pokes his head inside the car, clears his throat with hesitation. 

“Jesus. Sorry.” He reaches over and unlocks it. He doesn’t watch as Phil sits down in his car, or as he clasps his hands together. “Do you care where we go?” Doesn’t see his red-welted cheek.

“Not really.”

“Okay, I’ll take us back to my flat.”

The radio plays to their unlistening ears. If Dan were listening, maybe he would recognize the song.

_ Don’t know the first thing about who you are. My heart is waiting, taken from a star. _

He tries not to get lost on the lamp-lit streets. Fifty-eight North Promenade disappears behind them; Dan’s not sure he’ll be able to find it again. The song’s dizzying words roll right off his ears.

_ If we don’t go now we won’t get very far. Don’t know the first thing about who you are. _

“You’re welcome to spend the night, if you want.” The whole scene -- a near stranger in his car, the music, the dark -- doesn’t quite feel real. It’s got all the components to make a perfectly weird dream.

“I -- okay.”

Until Dan parks his car, the silence is manageable and static. Without the blurry sounds of the radio, Dan’s not sure what to do. Getting out of the car is probably the most logical thing, but it doesn’t happen.

“What’d you get at Starbucks?” Dan says finally, like an idiot.

“I can’t remember. I get something different every time.”

“Mustn’t have been that good then?”

“Yeah.”

This is when Dan opens the door, because this, he thinks belatedly, is what people do. They get out of the car when they park it, and they go somewhere. They do something.

When Phil gets out of the car, it’s apparent how tall he is: Dan’s height. The little Hyundai seems suddenly  _ not enough _ . If Dan weren’t so awkward, and were he not looking at Phil, maybe he’d apologize. 

It’s really the first time he’s gotten a good look at the other boy. He’s made of edges and pale skin, dark hair and an inward curl. It’s enchanting, almost, seeing everything through the dark and quixotic film.  _ (God, did he just think that word? How much more of a pretentious English student could he be?) _

But then he’s not really thinking anymore; he can’t be, because he just reached for Phil’s hand. No  _ thinking _ person would do that. 

Phil doesn’t flinch away. It’s like a childish game of follow-the-leader as they climb staircase after staircase, and Dan can’t get enough. Maybe it’s the idea of Someone Not-Too-Bad, but he squeezes Phil’s hand as they reach his door. He doesn’t feel the smile on his face.

The world settles, creaks, groans, and  _ click _ s as he shuts his door behind them. 

“Dan,” Phil says to himself. Dan pretends he doesn’t hear. “Is it short for Daniel? Your name, I mean.”

Dan’s still smiling when he answers. “Yeah. Daniel Howell.” He’s not really sure why he says that, but Phil accepts the answer anyway.

“Nice to meet you, Daniel Howell.” He sticks out his hand, grinning. It’s then that Dan finally sees the mark on Phil’s face. It’s fading, but still obvious in the fluorescence of the nearby lamp. He can hardly conceal his wince when he meets the other’s hand. 

The moment falls --

“Philip Lester.” 

\-- and breaks. Into the settled-down earth, a fertilizer for bad thoughts.

Dan knows that Phil saw him looking. It’s suddenly so very there now, the redness. His feet catch on nothing as he backs away, wanting nothing less than to hurt this person before him. He doesn’t want it to be, but  _ I’m sorry _ is the clearest thought in his head. He thought he’d gotten past these thoughts. He thought Eric could hold no power over him now, but he, as he so often used to be, is wrong. 

_ It’s your fault _ .

“Um --”

“It’s o--”

“I’m so --”

_ “Dan.” _

At once nothing is soft anymore, except for a voice of mellow it’s-okays and you’re-fines. The glass has pieced itself back together for now, at least.

“Let’s lay down.”

Half an hour later, Dan’s hair is clustered over his eyes. His cheek presses against Phil’s shoulder, no longer catching saltstreams. His thoughts are akin to applesauce: indistinct, unclear, and the colour of light honey. His hand is pressed into a very gentle something else.  _ Phil’s hand? _

A silent telly (that he doesn’t remember turning on) lights the background. In the haze that is this maybe-dream, somebody’s asleep next to him. Everything is caramelizing again, and he can’t even be bothered to turn on his alarm.

 

*

 

Dan hasn’t seen him in weeks. He hasn’t run into him at Starbucks, or seen him around uni, and he still can’t decide if he should be calling him more often.

_ “I’d love to stay, Dan…” _

The door of the lecture hall is locked.  _ Out sick today. -Dr. S, _ says a note. He’s torn between euphoric relief and frustration. Why not email? He wouldn’t have had to come all the way over here.

_ “...but I can’t.” _

_ “It’s okay, Phil. Just… whenever you need help… I’m right here.” _

He’d even skipped coffee for the sake of not being late.  _ Better late than never, _ he thinks, not for the first time that morning, even though this isn’t what he does. He’s  _ always _ late.

He’s sluggish without the caffeine in him. The smell of it, now that he’s about to get some, flirts with his senses. His name’s called, but before he can react, somebody taps him on the shoulder, asks, “That yours?” and points to the counter.

“Oh,” he looks up. The somebody looks just like Phil from the corner of his eye.  _ It’s not Phil. You’re overthinking things. _ So he grabs the cup (a venti, for desperate times) and looks again. 

“I didn’t think you’d recognized me,” says Phil. Glassy light bounces off the almost-stranger’s face, and Dan’s not sure if he’ll ever truly know if his life is  _ real _ .

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Dan’s voice is so soft that Phil asks him to repeat himself. “I didn’t think I’d see you here today.” Then he remembers and looks around. He leans in, but not too far. “Is he here?”

But Phil shakes his head. Dan suddenly feels like crying; he doesn’t know why. Phil’s gaze is untroubled and easy. 

“Do you wanna go for a walk?” one of them says. Having known himself for his whole life, it sounds like something Dan would say, but the feel of sound never brushes his lips. He nods, just in case.

And they walk in comfortable reticence as they lead each other into one of the university’s many parks, holding hands because, “it’s cold. How else am I gonna keep warm, Dan?” even though it’s been in the low twenties all day.

“Do you wanna be super cliche and sit on the park benches and talk about life?” Dan asks, hiding his cheesy grin.

“That doesn’t actually sound terrible.”

Dan laughs.  _ You’re cute _ , he thinks, but never will he say it aloud. Things like that are not what he does. 

He points. “Okay, how about that one?”

What  _ does _ he do?

“Sounds good.”

On the bench, Dan thinks that he’ll never see another day like this in his life. Amber wind wraps around them and the sun drips orange. Everything tacks together, and it’s hard to do much but stare until his eyes hurt.

“What’re you studying?” he asks, still looking at Phil. His dark hair rustles in the wind; Dan has the urge to run his fingers through it. He lifts his hand, careful not to move too suddenly. Rests it on the other boy’s shoulder -- because that’s all he is. A boy. He’s hardly old enough to drink, but here he is, going and going until the straw crackles with every inhale. And this, he thinks, is what he does:

He loves, hasty and incomplete, and he lives unrequisite, and he casts lines that never reel. He aches when the nerves get too tight. 

_ Please don’t leave. _

He’s missed Phil’s answer. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you’re okay.”

He nods too quickly. He swears to himself he won’t screw this up. He can’t.

And Phil? He’s an anchor if Dan’s ever seen one.

_ I love you I love you I love you _

“Let’s keep walking, Dan.”

He nods again,

_ Hold me _

Sticks out his hand, 

_ Need me _

And pulls him close.

 

*

 

He tries his hardest not to look embarrassed. Phil doesn’t notice, or doesn’t let on that he does. 

Why does he have to be so…  _ needy? _

His hand is clammy in Phil’s as they walk.

“Can I be insane for a minute?” Dan asks. If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s being dumb. Loudly.

“You’re not gonna cut off my arms, are you?”

The humor catches him off guard; a laugh bubbles up out of him. 

“No, Phil, I’m not gonna cut your arms off,” he smiles. He walks sideways into Phil, bumping him, leading up to his reply. “Not anymore.”

Phil laughs and it’s so distracting that Dan almost forgets his question.

“Well. If I can keep all my appendages, why not? Go for it.”

The light air of the whole situation suddenly weighs a thousand tonnes. Dan opens his mouth to speak, but when nothing comes out, he closes it again. Phil’s hand feels suffocating.

“I was gonna ask -- do you wanna move in? I know we’ve only --” he can’t bring himself to keep talking. “I know we’re not --” he doesn’t really know what to say, anyway.

Phil’s eyes are wide when Dan looks up. 

This? The whole screwing up thing? Is exactly what he was not supposed to do. Normal people don’t  _ do _ things like that. They can talk to someone and not let it be weird. They can  _ not ask strangers to move in with them _ . They can go through a regular day of life, and not feel guilty about it, and they can talk to someone nice for two seconds without falling in love with them.

To say he regrets asking would be an understatement.

“Jesus, Phil -- I’m sorry. That was weird. I’m weird. Everything’s weird. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t mean for it to, but it sounds like an excuse. A bad one, at that.

Phil’s hand hasn’t let go of his own. Maybe it’s a good sign, but Dan has a feeling his perception of good things is skewed.

Until they reach the edge of the park, it’s like their mouths are taped shut. Eventually it’s Dan that takes his hand from Phil’s, because even if he doesn’t want to, he has to. He can’t…  _ hurt _ Phil. Even thinking the word turns his tongue to a metallic paperweight. His grimace swells the silence to bloated.

“Stop thinking so much, Dan.”

“Right,” he says dryly. It’s a word he’s never fully understood,  _ dryly _ . It’s not dry. It’s itchy wool and rough sandpaper, but it’s certainly not dry. 

“Right,” he says again. “I’ll see you ‘round, then?”

Phil smiles, and it doesn’t look forced. For this Dan is incredibly relieved. “Yeah.”

Dan makes himself start walking, or else he won’t ever move again. It’d be cliche to say he can feel Phil’s stare on his back, but he can. His pace slows without his permission.

It’s all a bit much. Everything in his life is a bit much, if he’s being honest. Going places is hard. Lying to himself about his mental health  _ (I’m fine, please stop asking)  _ is harder. And turning away from someone who might actually know how to help? It’s damn near impossible.

“Phil?” he says. He hates himself for it, but he would’ve anyway, no matter what he ended up doing. He almost trips as he turns around. He tries to blame it on general clumsiness.

Phil’s a good five metres away by the time he works up the courage to repeat himself. “Phil!”

The boy’s figure stutters. Turns around.

“Will you -- oh,  _ fuck _ .” He can’t even make his mouth say something right. “Fucking christ, Phil, why am I so bad at everything?” Like Phil knows the answer. The absence of Phil’s response brands him with a  _ fuck me! _ right across his forehead. “Will you spend the night with me?” he says eventually. It sounds as bad as he’d hoped it wouldn’t. 

Phil smiles a little bit, like weights are pulling down on each corner of his mouth, like it pains him. “I’d love to, but I’ve got plans. Later, though? I promise.”

Dan nods because  _ jesus fuck _ , what else is he supposed to do?

So he turns around and almost jogs back to his shitty little flat. As soon as he’s inside, it takes everything in him not to punch through something. 

He’s not mad at Phil, no.

But he is mad at a lot of things. For starters, his mental health, because he refuses to acknowledge it. And his fridge, because it doesn’t hold anything but flour and soda. And his bed, for being too old -- his floor for being too creaky. He’s mad at Eric and Lucas and the goddamn leaky faucet. At himself because he can’t fucking fix it, and because he’s the cheapest person he’s ever met.

_ I promise _ . He doesn’t trust it.

 

*

 

He’s sleeping or floating or something when Dan falls from the sky, lands on his bed. Immediate to his attention is the pain in his spine. He groans, trying to stretch away the effects of his mattress. He groans again when he hears a moving noise, soft yet urgent and untrackable.

It’s not his door, or the heater, or even the faucet. 

He scrambles through his bedsheets and finally gets to his phone. An incoming call lights his screen.

_ Philip Lester -- Mobile _ .

He almost can’t answer. But if he didn’t, what then? What if Lucas…  and how many missed calls did it take to wake him up?

“Hullo?”

Phil makes a noise that might be a laugh or a scoff. Without seeing his face, he can’t tell.

“What? What’re you laughing at?”

“You answer the phone the same way every time.” The voice almost sounds angry. Tired, probably. Hopefully. It’s… Dan checks the time. It’s one in the morning.

Dan tries to count how many times they’ve talked on the phone. Twice? Three, at most? Either Phil’s got a good memory or Dan’s got a bad one.

“I guess I do, yeah.”

“Hey, um. Are you at your flat?”

_ Shit. _ There’s a thousand and one possibilities running through his head about what could have happened -- or  _ be _ happening right now.

“Yeah, wh--”

A thump interrupts him, then multiple. 

“Um. I’ll be right back,” he says awkwardly to Phil. It doesn’t really cross his mind that nobody should be knocking on his door right now, in the middle of the night.

When he opens the door, he drops his phone. This time it’s not because of a collision.

Dan’s not really sure where to look first, so he looks everywhere. Phil stands before him. His shirt is wrinkled and looking like he’s been wearing it for days. His hair’s a mess, and the black fringe hangs over his eyes. There’s a smell on him that pinches at Dan’s nose, and the worse stuff he can’t really stomach mentioning. It takes everything in himself not to throw up right then.

All Dan can really do is take the suitcase the other boy brought with him and bring it into his living room. He motions for Phil to sit on the couch while he tries his hardest not to run straight to the kitchen.

He spots the trash bin, makes a break for it, and empties his stomach.

“Does that offer still stand?” Phil asks as he turns around. Dan won’t look him in the eye, or else he’ll see the bruises on the boy’s sharp cheeks and the blood on his lips. 

“The…  of course, Phil.”  _ Of course _ isn’t something he usually says. It sounds cocky and know-it-all. It sounds almost like a threat, and for a second he’s worried Phil will take it that way. But  _ of course _ his home is still open… and empty, almost, with bare hallways and an extra bedroom.

Phil’s head hangs forward, looking at his lap, messing with his hands. His button-up looks about ready to quit its job as a shirt. “Thanks.”

Dan reaches forward, an unsure tremor at his hands. “May I? Your shirt, I mean. Is there any --” he doesn’t want to say damage, or bruises, or blood. His eyes are filled with a pointed sting that means he’s about to cry.

Phil nods. In the moment he does, he’s not a victim. He’s strong and brave and other, better, more pretentious-English-student words that Dan can’t quite summon. His hands find the shirt’s buttons and he releases them, one by one, gentle as he can be. The fabric separates. He bites his tongue.

The good news is that there’s no blood. The bad news is that there are lots of purple stains against Phil’s skin. Dan hopes that they’re love bites, but at the same time, he doesn’t, because he didn’t make them. Because the only color that Phil’s pallor deserves is the yellow of the sun, or the blue of Dan’s bedsheets, or the tan of his hands. Not this pale black, not purple. Not red.

“Do you wanna shower? Or take a bath?”

“If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Dan extends his hand again, pulling Phil’s shirt off his shoulders, and leads him to the bathroom. 

This is not the place to be when you’re in love with someone, and these are not the thoughts to think around strangers.

“Here’s a towel -- oh, uh, and a washcloth,” he sputters, starting to run the water. He stands again, not looking at Phil or his bare and bruised chest. “Let me know if you -- uh, need anything.”

He starts to leave. “Dan? Wait.”

In his whole life Dan never wanted to be the focus of pity. He didn’t want people to give it to him, or look like he was asking for it. He knows Phil wouldn’t pity him, but he’s scared as he turns around.

“Yeah?”

Dan shifts under Phil’s stare. The brown-haired boy’s focusing hard on the tile floor when Phil’s hand meets his shoulder. Dan can’t think straight, what with the acrid smell and the red on his vision. Phil leans forward; neither of them recoil. Dan keeps the kiss easy and sugary, his lips light. The last thing he wants to do is press on Phil’s injury. He lets go, eyes alight and asleep at once, and almost-smiles. His system isn’t shaking for once when he speaks.

“Have a nice bath, Phil.”

When he’s out of the bathroom, he can’t evade his tiredness any more. He goes to his bed, eyes drooping, breathing slowing, and waits. 

Phil finally crawls beside him, hair wet and sweet-smelling. Though Dan can’t tell for sure in the dark, he thinks the bruises look lighter. It breaks his heart if he thinks about it too much, so he tries not to. He picks out from his cacophony of thoughts a phrase, repeats it.   _ This is gonna work. _

And repeats it,

_ it’ll be okay _

and repeats it, until Phil says goodnight.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, my name is sara and my hobbies include writing cliches and cliches only.


End file.
